Morning Rising
by Lea of Mirkwood
Summary: 3011-3019: Théoden finds companionship in the company of a woman named Éoleth, who comes to Edoras seeking a home. Theoden/OC romance. I cherish every "ew."
1. Prologue

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Morning Rising

Lea of Mirkwood

Disclaimer: I own Éoleth.

Summary: 3011-3019: Théoden finds companionship in the company of a woman named Éoleth, who comes to Edoras seeking a home

Prologue: 3019

Éoleth fell to her knees and looked up at the sky in despair and pain. Her golden hair tumbled over her shoulders and waved like a flag in the breeze. Could she have done something? Was there anything she could have done? Could she have played it differently, won a few more moments? She did not know. So many warnings. Had he known, that the time he had spent before leaving for Gondor, that it would be the last time he would ever see her? The last time she had seen his face, the last time she had looked into his clear blue eyes, could she have known?

The sun rose higher over the hills of Rohan. The break of day, the morning rising. It came slowly, and bathed the world in orange. She bent down and plucked a blossom of simblemyne, wet with the dew and the tears of Rohan. She brushed the soft white petals against her lips, letting the tears fall down her cheeks and mingling with the morning dew. Finally, as she kissed the flower, she cast it down upon the burial mound and bid the man she loved the most final of goodbyes. In that moment she felt the weight of everything she had lost. All the chances she could have had.

Héo dréag ðá losinga 

Earla ðinga ðe héo forléas. 

Héo swá oft dréag hire sáwle sincende

Héo ne cúðe hire heortan lust.

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That is the prologue. Very ambiguous, I know. Please review. I know that this will be a difficult fic to write, and since I'm going to write longer chapters it will take me longer, so please be patient with my slowness.

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	2. Arrival

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Morning Rising

Lea of Mirkwood

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It was a cold and windy autumn day in Edoras when the rider arrived. The year was 3011. Théoden King had grown older, and no longer rode out as readily to battle. Some said his days as a warrior king were over, but he refused to believe it. He sat in the Golden Hall and was beloved by all his people. No longer did he allow the speech of Gondor to be used freely in his halls like his father, but renewed the speech of the Rohirrim. He had but one son, Théodred, then merely 33 years of age. On that day the wind was blowing spectacularly, and small drops of rain fell from the heavens. The rain would not have daunted anyone, if the wind had not made it fall so stingingly sharply. However, the lone rider was undaunted, and the guards at the gates watched as the rider galloped to the gates. 

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"My king," said Gríma, bowing before his liege. "There is a noblewoman at the gates, requesting protection. She says she was promised sanctuary in Meduseld if ever she needed it. Shall we allow her in?"

Théoden frowned. It had been long since there had been such a request made of him. But, of course, it could not harm him to honor such a request. He waved his hand with a sigh.

"Let her enter," he said, and sat up straight in his throne. Gríma nodded and stood up, then walked to the great doors. He opened them slightly, just enough for his lithe frame to slip through, and then closed the doors behind him. Théoden heard the slightly muffled sounds of a conversation, and then a thumping sound like a commotion.

"No, I will _not_ give my sword into your keeping, no matter what you may think of me!" snapped a stern, though muffled, voice from outside the doors. The doors creaked as Háma opened them, frowning at the figure who now took quick steps towards the throne of the king. As she walked, she lifted her red cloak from her head and let the hood lay on her shoulders. When she drew nearer, Théoden saw a stern-faced woman, no longer in her first youth, with eyes as grey as stormclouds and just as stubborn looking. The only sign of her age were the fine lines in her face and the look of one who has seen the world and was not impressed. Her hair was pulled back from her face in a knot at the nape of her neck, and looked so tautly done that he couldn't imagine it ever flying free. The hair itself was dark gold, much like polished oak. She stopped before the dais and curtsied. It was only then did he see the bundle on her back and sword at her belt.

"Théoden king," she began. "My name is Éoleth daughter of Éochaid. I am of a distant kin to the house of Eorl. Long ago my father rode with your father, Thengel king, and once saved him from a wild man's spear. In that time, your father pledged that if any of my father's family were to need help or shelter, that you and all that followed you were to give it to them freely. That time has come, and I come to request you keep your father's vow."

She spoke so quickly and matter-of-factly that Théoden could not help but wonder if this had been rehearsed. With one hand he gripped the hilt of his sword Herugrim, a habit born from long days in sieges and nervousness; with the other he pushed the golden circlet on his head back slightly. It was a small quirk, and he only pushed back his crown when flustered.

"Why now do you come here, Lady," he asked. "When you speak of family? What has happened to make you need this sanctuary?"

"My father died a few years past, my lord," replied Éoleth.

"Have you no other family?" asked Théoden. "Your husband, perhaps?"

"I have never married, sir," said Éoleth stiffly. "This is where I have come."

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By that, thought Théoden, _she means she has nowhere else to go_. He sighed, but not noticeably. "Yes, my lady Éoleth of the House of Eorl, you will take up residence here in Edoras."

She curtsied quickly again. "I thank you profoundly, my king."

"Gríma," said Théoden. His advisor slid up to the side of the dais and looked at him. Théoden looked into Gríma's pale eyes and said quietly, "Take the lady Éoleth to a room in the east wing, and see to it that she is given more suitable clothing. If you will look, the edge of her gown is in tatters. That bundle she carries cannot hold enough gowns for a lady."

"I can hear you."

Théoden turned quickly to look at Éoleth. She was standing in the exact same place as she had before, calmly meeting his gaze as if he were her equal. Which he was not.

"You must have excellent hearing, my lady, if you could hear a whisper at ten paces. Perhaps I could give you a place among some of the doorwards, so you could hear of strangers plots."

She had the good grace to blush.

"And, as well, what you did hear was of no consequence. You should be fitted with new clothes. You cannot be blind to the ragged skirt you wear."

Éoleth chose to ignore this. "Shall you tend to my horse, since I am to be treated as a lady here?"

Théoden nodded. "Wise idea. Gríma, once you have finished finding lady Éoleth her own chambers, send one of the stable boys to tend to her horse."

"If you would follow me, my lady," said Gríma, with an unsettling smile as he bowed to Éoleth in her tattered and muddy gown and ragged bundle of possessions. She shot a look of defiance at all present and stood up as straight as a spear, then followed Gríma Wormtongue.

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Soon after Éoleth was placed in her room, and did not leave it for that time, Théoden had nearly forgotten about her. So it was a great surprise when, on the fifth day since she had come, he came into the dining hall to eat breakfast and found her seated in a chair by the fire. He halted abruptly and looked around. No one else was in the room. Éoleth stood when he entered and bowed deeply.

"My lord, I do but beg a little of your time, for I must speak with you," she said firmly, leaving no room for objection. Théoden recovered from his first shock and sat down at the head of the great table.

"If you may speak to me while I eat, then proceed," he said. Éoleth blinked a few times, and then she spoke.

"My lord, I have been here for a fortnight at least, and I am still treated as a guest. Everything is done for me, and all I can do is sit here and wait until my hair grows grey and I turn blind." She rocked back and forth on the balls of her feet. He glanced at them. Clad in leather boots, instead of the light slippers usually worn by women at Edoras. (With the exception of Éowyn, of course, who he had caught too many times wearing her brother's breeches and riding astride some of the war horses.) Théoden swallowed his mouthful of ham and waved a knife at her.

"You dispute the hospitality of the Golden Hall?" he asked grimly. Éoleth shook her head in dismay.

"Not at all, my king!" she cried quickly. "I only meant-"

Théoden smiled good-naturedly. "I know what you meant, I understand. My sister-daughter is the same way. Never allows anyone to do anything for her. No, she must do it herself."

"Are you speaking about me, uncle?" asked a soft voice. Éoleth turned to see a young girl, barely out of childhood. The girl walked over to her uncle quietly. Éoleth heard her feet falling a bit heavier than should be for such a small girl. When the king looked away from her, Éoleth ducked her head down a little and saw the tip of a boot poking out from under the soft gown. Éoleth rocked back on her heels for a moment and wiggled her own feet in their heavy boots.

"Yes, Éowyn," said Théoden, patting the girl's cheek as she kissed his. "I was telling this lady what a disobedient girl you are."

"Oh," replied Éowyn, pulling out the chair next to Théoden and sitting down. "That's all right then."

Éowyn was merely sixteen years of age. Her hair was long and golden, pulled back only with a strap of leather. Thin and tall, she had barely begun to fill out her dresses. She looked at her uncle's plate with keen grey eyes, and when he was not looking, stole a piece of ham from his plate. Théoden looked up at Éoleth.

"You would like to work, then? Have a bit of a job here?" he asked. Éoleth nodded.

"Yes, my lord."

Théoden glanced at Éowyn, and she nodded, as though something had actually been said. Théoden turned back to Éoleth.

"Do you work well with horses, Lady Éoleth?" he asked thoughtfully. Éoleth nodded.

"Yes, my lord. I could not have spent so much of my life in Rohan without working well with horses."

"True," replied Théoden. "Have you any objection to menial work?"

"No, my lord."

"Are you afraid of _large_ horses?"

"Certainly not, no!" exclaimed Éoleth. "My lord," she added as an afterthought. Théoden smiled crookedly.

"You really needn't keep adding 'my lord' to every thing you say to me. One last question."

Éoleth nodded, waiting for him to proceed.

"How old are you?"

Éoleth bristled at that, but answered with the same politeness as she had answered the others, but with her chin up a little higher. "I am eight-and-forty, my lord."

Théoden nodded curtly, and looked like he had made a decision. However, the necessary step of telling her what that decision was immediately was delayed by the arrival of a man, so alike in form and manner to Théoden himself that he could only be Théodred, son of the King.

"Father," he said, walking up behind the king and smiling. Théoden looked up over his shoulder at his son.

"Ah, my son," he said with a broad smile. "I was about to call for you."

Théodred raised one dark brow. "What for, father?"

Théoden gestured towards Éoleth. "This lady lives here now. She desires work to do. I have thought, and I believe she should help in the stables, since she is not afraid of the large horses."

Théodred nodded and bowed low, his leather jerkin creasing deeply at the waist as he did so. "Would you like to see the stables now, my lady?"

Éoleth nodded. "I would like that very much, my lord. Thank you. And thank you, my king." She curtsied to the king and turned expectantly to Théodred. He smiled and gestured for her to follow him out of the room.

They walked through the streets of Edoras until they reached the stables, near the gate. As with most of the houses, it was made of wood. The doors were large and carved with the standard of the Rohirrim. Théodred reached for the large handle and pulled on it. The heavy doors opened and at once a rush of air flooded their faces, smelling of leather, wood and the sweat of men and horses.

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I like_ this place,_ thought Éoleth. Théodred smiled at her happily, as if knowing her thoughts.

"What is your name?" he asked curiously. Éoleth turned to face him as they walked inside.

"Éoleth daughter of Éochaid."

When they were halfway down the long length of the stables Théodred stopped her, and pointed to a stall across from him.

"This is Brego, my horse."

Brego was a magnificent beast, a great bay with rich dark coat and a mane as black as night. Hearing his name, he pricked up his ears and put his head over the stall door. He nickered softly at his master, stretching out his nose. Théodred smiled and took a long stride towards him, placing his hand on the horse's nose. Brego had a white star on his forehead and intelligent dark eyes, like black pools. Théodred tilted his head towards Brego's, looking at Éoleth encouragingly. She stepped forward and touched Brego's nose gently.

"He is a magnificent horse," said Éoleth softly. "I do not believe I have seen more fine a horse than here."

"Then you have seen nothing," said a new voice. Coming out of the stall next to Brego was a tall youth, only just come into manhood. His long pale hair was pulled back, but still unruly strands clung to his cheeks and caught in the light hair on his jaw. He bowed.

"I am Éomer, son of Éomund. Who are you?"

Théodred grinned broadly and lightly punched Éomer's shoulder.

"Forgive my cousin, he is too blunt with his words," ribbed Théodred. Éoleth inclined her head.

"Bluntness I forgive, for I have been known to be too free with that quality myself. I am Éoleth daughter of Éochaid." Éoleth bowed in turn. "Théoden King has been kind enough to allow me to dwell in Meduseld."

Éomer nodded, understanding. "Good. I shall enjoy seeing you about. Now, if you'll excuse me, my lady, foolish cousin, I must go."

And he was gone, before Théodred had a chance to say anything about his parting shot. The son of the king sighed and shook his head.

"Again, forgive my cousin. He is but twenty, and rather rash, quick-tempered."

Éoleth shook her head. "No, please. There is nothing to forgive. I rather liked him."

Théodred raised his shoulders politely. "That is a first. Forgive me. Your horse is down the hall."

Éoleth touched Théodred's shoulder. "Thank you, my lord Théodred."

"You are most sincerely welcome," replied the prince of the Riddermark. Éoleth walked down the stable hall until she reached a stall with a familiar long face looking down at her.

"Ah, my wonderful Highboy," she cooed, stroking the roan's neck. "Have they treated you well?"

Théodred, who had followed her, pitched his voice low and spoke out of the corner of his mouth. "As well as the king's horse."

"Really!" replied Éoleth with mock surprise, placing her hand on her chest and widening her eyes. "How can you tell?"

"Well," said Théodred as Highboy. "That stall at the very end on the left belongs to Snowmane. A very nice mount, though only a year old now. He is to be the king's mount later in life."

"Truly?" said Éoleth, leaning back and abandoning all pretense. "How beautiful."

"Er, yes." Théodred's voice wavered from his own and Highboy's, seemingly unsure as to his current identity; horse or man. "Yes. Snowmane is still young and not as well trained as others."

Éoleth took a step back to better see the young steed. Snowmane was white with grey nose and a slightly grey mane. His ears swiveled back and forth as he tried to make out whether this new person and this familiar person were talking about him.

"I think I will be quite at home here, Théodred," decided Éoleth. "Would you be so kind as to show me where you keep the horses' tack?"

"Certainly."

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First chapter complete! Woohoo to me! Yeaaaah...any gigantic breaches in canon there? Let me know if you see any, and I will be glad to make amends. ^^

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	3. A Dinner Disaster

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Morning Rising

Lea of Mirkwood

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A month passed since Éoleth came to Edoras. She had spent this month in the stables, proving herself to the Rohirrim there. She had the bruises to mark for it. Every piece of tack was gleaming at the end of each day, and there would not be a single chance of any of the horses foundering, for at the end of each day she cleaned out their hooves with a small metal pick. Each mount was brushed carefully and checked for saddle sores. This had been her life for the past month. And she loved it.

Éoleth sat down at her bed, wiping sweat from her forehead with one sleeve. A long hard day's work. She had risen at dawn and left her room to go to the stables. There she had needed to deal with Limstrang, Éomer's tiny colt, and the prickers he had stepped in and danced out of. She remembered Éomer's horrified face when she came leading the little spindly-legged grey colt in, with thin streams of blood running down his forelegs and down to the hocks. He had been so relieved when they had cleaned away the blood and he saw that it was only a few minor scratches. However, in releasing the poor creature and removing the thorns, she had scratched up her own hands as well. She winced as the salt of her sweat seeped into the shallow lacerations, and quickly blew on them. She stood up again and moved to the basin of water in the corner of her room and carefully washed her hands. The scratches were little more than the length of her smallest fingernail, and not very deep. Still, they stung when touched, and the small red lines crept up her arms to her elbows. As she was examining them, and trying to decide whether to wrap them with cloth or let them stay in the air, there was a knock on the door. She looked up sharply.

"Come in!" she called, letting her arms drop to her sides. The door opened a crack and Théodred leaned his head in with a welcoming smile.

"Good afternoon, lady Éoleth!" he said with a smile.

"Evening, evening, Lord Théodred," corrected the older woman with a twinkle in her eye.

"Pardon. Evening. My father wishes for you to dine with us tonight. Do you think you could manage to come?"

"Manage, my lord?" replied Éoleth coolly, quirking an eyebrow. "I am sure I can manage."

"Good then!" said Théodred. "I will go tell my father."

He closed the door, nodding his head to her as she went. Éoleth smiled calmly as the door closed, smiling smiling smiling- the door closed. She leapt up from her bed and threw open the doors of her wardrobe, flipping through the long row of new dresses. Most were far too ornate than was her taste. _Long sleeves, long sleeves, _thought Éoleth. _I will not show up at the King's table with scratches all up and down my arms. Thank the mountains Théodred had not been in the stables at all today, and he missed my horrific show of neglect. Of course it was not Éomer's fault Limstrang got caught in the prickers. Mine, all mine. I let him out and didn't watch. I should have known, he's only a baby. But so is Éomer. Now which one is this?_

She lifted out a grey dress with long, flowing sleeves. The fabric was less adorned than the others, and only a slight stitching at the bodice to tighten the fabric at the waist. The neckline was trimmed in a dark red ribbon about the width of her finger, which was quite sparse compared to the, _horrors of horrors,_ elaborate and formal gown in the back of the wooden bureau. Slipping her brown shift over her head, Éoleth started to undo the ties keeping the chemise up at her neckline. The neckline of this one was far too high to be unseen when she wore the grey dress. That was the problem as well, all of her gowns were too low cut for her taste, down at least a hand from her collarbone. (Sideways, not lengthways. A hand in equestrian terms is four inches.) She searched among the drawers until she found a lower chemise, and a clean underskirt. She started to put it on quickly.

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Théoden sat down at the head of the table and looked to his right, where sat his son. He frowned and looked at the doors of the great hall.

"Lady Éoleth did say she would be coming, did she not?" he asked, looking to his son. Théodred nodded.

"Yes, she did. No problem about it."

Théoden lifted his shoulders and sighed. "Any delays she mentioned?"

"None."

Éomer flushed and looked down at his plate, remembering the red scratches up and down her arms. Éowyn looked up at the doors and started to play with the flowers in the vase in front of her plate. She looked down at the small red blossoms and ran her finger along the edge of the petal. Finally the doors creaked open and in walked Éoleth, looking not much different than she did during the days that they saw her. Her hair was still pulled back as tightly as ever, and there was still the same proud lift of her chin.

"Good, my lady. I was beginning to think you were not coming," said Théoden good-naturedly. Éoleth seated herself in the chair that Théodred proffered, to his right across from Éowyn. Éoleth smiled, feeling like her head was about to explode.

"No, my lord. I would not miss such a chance to dine with my king and his relatives," she said, setting her cloth napkin on her lap and smoothing out the creases. Théoden smiled back at her, seeing she was extremely uncomfortable.

"I am honored to be considered so highly in your esteem," he said, enjoying the quick banter.

"You are the king, my lord, and have done many admirable things during your reign. That in itself would demand respect."

"So you think there may be something else about me that might not demand respect, or might take respect away?"

"Not at all, my lord. I simply meant that you automatically had my respect, but that you were also known as a bit...aloof."

"So you think I am aloof and cold?"

Éoleth tilted her head to the side, trying desperately to claw herself out of the hole she had dug herself into. "Let us simply say that you improve on closer acquaintance."

"But you have not spent so much time with me as to know that." Théoden winked at his son, who groaned and covered his face with a hand.

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Must he try every_ visitor that comes to Edoras?_

"The simple fact that you have allowed me to live here and take up work in your stables shows you to be of good character," said Éoleth, wishing the meal would hurry up and come, so she could have the excuse of a mouth full of food so she would avoid putting her foot in it again. Mercifully the doors opened almost in reply to her fervent thoughts, and a few women walked in bearing a platter of meat, setting it down on the table in their midst. Éoleth sighed and Théodred shot her a sympathetic look.

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"Please pass the butter."

The inane comment made by Éowyn attempted blindly to break the tension in the room. Éoleth's sleeves were sliding up her arms, and the scratches were almost visible. For some reason, the woman was loath to let them be seen by more than Éomer. As Éoleth reached across the table for the butter dish, her sleeve inched upwards. As the red lines started to fall into the light, Éomer collapsed into a coughing fit, covering his mouth with his hands as he coughed loudly. All eyes turned to him, except for Éoleth, who handed the butter to an inattentive Éowyn and pulled her sleeves down over her knuckles. She smiled at Éomer in reassurance, and the youth immediately ceased coughing, causing several suspicious looks to be sent his way. If it would not have given the game up altogether, Éoleth would have smacked her hand to her forehead. Théoden looked back to his food, occasionally giving Éomer a stern glare.

"How was life in your village, lady Éoleth?" asked Théoden suddenly, making Éoleth feel like a deer facing down a bow.

"Err..." she stalled, trying to remember what life had been like back when it had been a village. "It was small."

She scrambled in her mind for some more definite details that might be the least bit interesting. "I had cows. The village had cows. We, um, raised cows. A little bit."

She looked at Théoden's patient expression for a few more beats and then let her shoulders slump. "My lord, it was a long time since there were more than me in the ghost village. They died several years ago, and it has been just me in my old house. I really don't remember much of the village life. What would you like to know?"

"Nothing," said Théoden in consternation. "I did not know. I wish to know nothing, if the memory pains you so."

"It does not pain me, not any more. It has been years since I thought of them and of the village."

Éoleth, in her sudden need to be understood, threw her arms up in the air, sending her sleeves up to her elbows. Too late, she realized her forearms were exposed for all to see. Théodred gaped openly at the red lines marring her skin, like pine needles on sand. Théoden creased his brow, and Éoleth fancied that if the sun were out, it would have darkened due to that fell gleam in his eye. She dropped her arms back into her lap and looked down.

"Please pass the butter."

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I felt that might be a funny place to end that chapter. Please review. I swear, a Théoden romance isn't really repulsive, is it?


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